


Just A Bunch of Garbo

by iplierfic



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 04:30:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17015754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iplierfic/pseuds/iplierfic
Summary: Crankiplier h/c sickfic/injury fic, AKA the most indulgent thing I've ever written.





	Just A Bunch of Garbo

**Author's Note:**

> I found a list of h/c prompts on Tumblr and filled them in an effort to kickstart my muse. I debated posting this story, but then I realized that this was already a secondary alias and I basically had no rep to lose by being shamelessly indulgent in a niche fandom. I hope you enjoy!

  1. “I don’t know, you went down pretty hard.”



“Good thing I have such a _thick_ ass,” Mark grunted, trying to haul himself upright.  “Little help?”

“I don’t know if I _can_ help,” Ethan warned, clasping his hand.  “On three.”

“Three-two-one- _hup_ ,” Mark said, lunging upward.  Ethan locked his stance and tugged.  With only a little flailing, Mark set himself back on his skates.  Exhaling, he said, “This is fun?”

“It’s more fun if you don’t fall down,” Ethan pointed out dryly, dusting ice off his back.  “You okay?”

“I’m more bruise than man,” Mark admitted.

“C’mon, I’ve been craving hot cocoa.”

  1. “You’ll heal faster if you quit overdoing it.”



“Mamaplier didn’t raise a quitter,” Mark said, holding a bag of ice to his right wrist.  “How’s the video?”

“Looks solid,” Ethan said, flashing him an okay sign without turning around in his computer chair.  “Wanna get pizza for dinner?”

“It’s two AM.”

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Ethan retorted with a jaw-cracking yawn.  “My mama didn’t raise a quitter, either, but I could hit the snooze alarm any time.”

Sidling up behind him, Mark rested his chin on top of Ethan’s head.  “Bed time?”

“Dinner, then bed.”

“Good plan.”

  1. “You said it was just a scratch!  That is not just a scratch!”



“It’s just a scratch _somewhere_ ,” Mark replied moodily, scratching above the stitches on his hip.

Sliding into the chair beside the bed, Ethan took Mark’s hand and pinned it.  “Don’t scratch it.”

“It _itches_ ,” Mark whined, tugging his hand.  “Lemme go.”

“What did you do?”

“I fell off my bike.”

Ethan blinked.  “I thought you got rid of your bike.”

“Regular bike, not the motorcycle.”

Ethan sighed and squeezed his hand.  “Buddy.”

“Are you mad?”

“Sad.”

“Don’t be sad.  I was a badass.”

“I’m sure you were.”

  1. “I know you can’t feel it, but I promise I’m holding your hand.”



Glancing up at the clock on the wall, Mark added in a sleep-heavy voice, “I’ll keep holding it even after the nice nurse comes back and asks if I want to leave.”  Squeezing Ethan’s hand, Mark added, “I won’t leave.  You wouldn’t notice, given how little you’re awake, but I won’t.

“I’ve gotcha, blue boy.  You just rest.  I’m glad you’re okay.  No more emergency surgeries between us, mmkay?”  Mark looked up at the clock again and yawned.  “Not for appendixes, or anything.  Mmkay?  Mmkay.”

  1. “I’m not letting you brawl around in some germ pit with an open wound.”



“First of all,” Ethan began, laughing as a piglet bumped its nose against his calf, “a paper cut is _barely_ an open wound.  Second, why so huffy?”

Sullenly lingering near the gate, Mark pointed out, “It bit me.”

“You almost stepped on it!”

“ _Almost!_ ”

“Don’t you worry,” Ethan cooed at the piglet, “I won’t let big mean Mark hurt you.”

“I’m not _mean_ ,” Mark grumbled, inching into the pen.  “I’m _practical._ ”

“Just get over here, Mr. Practical.  This is what fairs are for.  Having _fun_.”

  1. “I don’t know why I bother patching you up when it takes you all of five minutes to get hurt again.”



“Patching me up is _sexy_ ,” Mark replied, wincing as he tugged his shirt back down, hiding his bandage-wrapped ribs from view.  “Paintball is _murder_.”

“They make pads for these things, you know,” Ethan pointed out dryly, fishing a bottle of painkillers from their stash.

“I’m not a pansy,” Mark replied, gingerly holding out a hand to accept the pills.  “Tyler’s just a really good shot.”

“Live and learn,” Ethan agreed sagely, ruffling Mark’s hair passingly.  “Live and learn.”

  1. “If you were really okay, you wouldn’t have fainted.”



“I _barely_ fainted,” Ethan retorted, sitting on the bare ground with a soaked rag over the back of his neck.  Mark poured his own water bottle over Ethan’s head; Ethan didn’t flinch.  “Don’t waste all your water.”

“Too late.”  Chucking the water bottle aside, Mark crouched down beside Ethan and added, “Do I have to call for help?”

“Gimme ten minutes,” Ethan urged, cradling his head in his hands.  “I’ll be fine.”

Popping a squat, Mark squeezed Ethan’s knee and grabbed his phone.  _Hey, Tyler – I could use a hand._

  1. “Shit, you’re bleeding through your clothes.”



Mark stared wonderingly at the red patch forming under his left knee.  “Ethan,” he said faintly, “I think my leg’s broken.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Ethan snapped.  “Sorry, this is just – dammit, Mark.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.  Just hold still.  Help’s on the way.”

“Why is it bleeding?” Mark asked softly.

“Do you want me to speculate?” Ethan asked, putting a grounding hand on his shoulder.  “Or would you rather just wait for the professionals?”

Mark tipped his head onto Ethan’s shoulder and exhaled.  “Sorry.”

Ethan sighed, rubbing his back.  “Don’t be.”

  1. “No, your brain isn’t goo. You just have a concussion.”



“My entire _being_ is goo,” Mark corrected, rubbing at the tender knot forming on the back of his head.  “How does _one_ grapefruit ‘cause this much damage?”

“Tyler,” Ethan replied explanatorily, passing him a cold pack.  “Try not to touch it.”

“Why?”

“’Cause.”

“’Cause why?”

“What day is it?”

“Thursss… I mean, uh?  It’s Wednes—? It’s definitely Wednesday.”

Ethan sighed.  “It’s Monday.”

“I knew that.  I was testing _your_ memory.”

“Uh-huh.”  Poking him in the side, Ethan added, “No falling asleep.”

“Big meanie,” Mark grumbled, leaning against him.

  1. “Yikes. This is going to need more than a couple Band-Aids.”



“Less talky, more pully,” Mark advised, holding out his cactus-riddled hands with a whine.  “I _barely_ touched it.”

“’Barely’ counts,” Ethan replied, using a pair of tweezers to remove another tiny spine.  Mark grunted.  “One down, only ninety more to go.”

“Just keep _pulling_ ,” Mark urged, “before they become a permanent part of my being.”

“Spiky Hands,” Ethan offered.  Brightening, he self-corrected.  “Spikiplier.”

Groaning, Mark asked, “What kind of Band-Aids do I get for this?”

“Depends on how good you are,” Ethan replied, plucking another thorn.

Mark howled.

  1. “Please lean on me before your limping gets even worse.”



“This is terrible,” Ethan groaned, one arm strung across Mark’s shoulders as they hobbled along.  “I have seen an empire _fall_.”

“This is why you don’t do _backflips_ in _parking lots_ ,” Mark replied.  “Broken ankles.”

“Twisted,” Ethan corrected.

“I heard a crack.”

“That was my pride.”

Mark huffed.  “Sure.”

“Can you even _imagine_ what would have happened to our friendship if I failed that first backflip?” Ethan asked.

“I don’t need to,” Mark replied.  “You didn’t fail.”

Ethan smiled despite himself.  “I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Me too,” Mark admitted.

  1. “I’m trying, but it just keeps bleeding!”



“Stop tilting your head up so far,” Mark replied, passing Ethan a fresh wad of tissues.  Ethan stuffed them against his bleeding nose, sighing thickly.  “It’ll stop bleeding eventually.”

“It’s so _dry_ out here.”

Mark shrugged, taking a seat on the ground next to him.  “Yup.  It’s a rite of passage out here to get a nosebleed.”

“I feel so welcomed,” Ethan snarked, pinching his nose.  “I forgot how much I hated these.”

“I don’t think anybody _likes_ them,” Mark pointed out.

“I _especially_ hate them,” Ethan grumbled.  “Like, a _lot_.”

“Nerd.”

  1. “I’m gonna take a lucky guess here and say that’s broken.”



Mark looked up forlornly from the hoverboard to Ethan.  “Why do bad things happen to good people?”

Ethan crouched down beside Mark and the demolished remains of the hoverboard.  “It lived a good life,” he soothed.

“It was our _baby_ ,” Mark said, upset.  “Our baby is dead.”

“That’s very … morbid,” Ethan replied, wrapping an arm around Mark’s shoulders.  “Hey.  We can get a new hoverboard.”

“I’m not a good father,” Mark said mournfully.

“No,” Ethan agreed as Chica approached, tail wagging, “but you _are_ a great dad.”

  1. “You know, even though your hair is plastered to your forehead and you’re a snotty mess, you’ve never looked lovelier.”



“Wow,” Mark croaked, stuffing a tissue against his red nose, “who said Prince Charming had to be over six feet tall?”

Ethan rolled his eyes and ambled inside Mark’s recording room, crouching beside him.  “Literally no one.  Can you get up?”

“ _Can_ I,” Mark snickered, coughing into his sleeve.  “Shoot me.  End my suffering.  Please.”

“C’mere, ya big baby.”  With unexpected strength, Ethan hooked a hand under Mark’s arm and dragged him upright.  “That’s enough recording for one day.”

  1. “Holy shit, you’re burning up.”



“ _You’re_ burning up,” Mark drawled, sagging against Ethan.  They’d barely made it two steps from the chair before he started sinking towards the floor.  “Ethan, I’m drowning.  Help me, Ethan.”

“How long have you been like this?” Ethan demanded, letting him sprawl across the carpeted floor.  Chica tromped over, tail wagging.  “No, sweetie, don’t – okay, fine,” Ethan added, laughing, as she promptly rested her upper half on Mark’s chest.  “See, now you’ll be healed.”

With a sniffle, Mark said from underneath a mound of fur, “I’m really not getting sympathetic vibes from you.”

  1. “Drink this and don’t argue with me.”



Arms folded on the kitchen table, Mark glanced morosely at the tiny cupful of cough syrup.  “But I wanna argue with you.”

Nudging the cup closer, Ethan insisted firmly, “Okay, drink this and then argue with me.”

“But you said—”

“I’m rescinding my previous statement.”

Frowning, Mark said, “So … you … _will_ argue with me?”

“Please just drink the cough syrup.”

Mark knocked it back like a shot, smashing it against the table and declaring, “I’m not allowed to drink alcohol.”

“It’s not alcohol.”

“Isn’t _all_ medicine alcohol?”

Ethan sighed.  “No.”


End file.
